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I look down at my feet, embarrassed. “Yeah, I know. I thought I was,” I whisper.
He removes his jacket and places it around my shoulders.
“Let’s get you out of the cold. I can put some antibiotics on your head. It doesn’t look like you’ll need stitches, so that’s good.”
The warmth of his coat immediately makes me feel better, so does the smell.
“Wait—what about my car?” I look back at my poor car. It’s probably totaled. The engine is likely crushed into a million pieces.
“I already called a tow. They can’t get it tonight, but they’re going to try in the morning.”
“Is it okay to just leave it here?”
“Yeah, no one will be out here. Do you have anything in there you need?”
“I left my purse,” I say, walking over to get it.
Sean grabs my side, turning me back toward the truck.
“I’ve got it.” He opens the door and holds his hand out for me.
I take it and attempt to jump in but wince at the shooting pain on my right side. He pulls me up from under my arms, helping me get into the front seat.
“I’ll be back in a second,” he says as he grabs my keys from my hand and walks back to my car.
I close the truck door, trying to warm up. He has the heated seat on for me, so my back is already warmer.
His phone is still open and set up in his car mount. His recent phone history is pulled up, and right at the top, it says My Bee <3.
◆◆◆
Sean drives carefully to my house.
I was only ten minutes away when I crashed.
He parks his truck in his usual spot, next to where my car would normally be. Once we get inside, he grabs the first-aid kit from under the sink.
He bought it for me as a joke when I first moved in, but I guess it’s going to come in some use. With Sean’s help, I gently climb onto the countertop in my bathroom.
He pulls a couple of items out of the kit.
He glances at me from under his lashes. “Where are you hurt?” he asks me.
His eyes are soft as he looks me up and down to examine me again for more visible wounds.
“My right ankle.”
He leans down and lifts my pant leg up to my calf. My ankle is already starting to bruise and swell.
“Can you move it?”
I swing it around with an audible, ouch.
“You might want to get this checked out tomorrow. Make sure it’s not sprained.”
He slowly stands back up, his hip resting against my knee. He took his jacket off when we got here, revealing a form fitted blue t-shirt.
He pours peroxide onto a cloth and raises his hand up to my head.
